


Gratuitous Suit Sex

by Apotro



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: And suitkink reaches its logical conclusion, Eames rubs against things, Humour, Masturbation, Other, Suit Kink, This is fairly adorable to imagine, Where Eames is a giant LOLcat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apotro/pseuds/Apotro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames makes mad, passionate sexual love with Arthur's suit.</p><p>(No, I regret nothing.)</p><p>For this inception_kink prompt:</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Eames jerks off on Arthur's best suit.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gratuitous Suit Sex

**Author's Note:**

> After a pig of a day (you don't want to know, trust me) let's cheer ourselves up with some lovely playful Eames, shall we? (Sorry for chaptering something so short, blame my phone)

Beautiful thing, it is.

It's a pavement-grey three-piece business suit with thin lapels and a nipped, Arthur-ish little waist. Huntsman of Savile Row, England. The tailor of royalty, aristocrats and probably a fair few wealthy gangsters. 

A work of art. A beautiful thing.

Eames is going to mess it up.

He lays it on the bed to contemplate as he slowly disrobes. First, his shirt, a mustardy-coloured thing with missing buttons, hits the floor. Next, he kicks off his shoes. Drags his eyes from the lusciousness of that waiting fabric to remove his socks and toss them in a corner. His belt doesn't want to unbuckle and he grunts at it, impatient, but a second later the cracked leather tongue slides sweetly out of the buckle and he can tug it free of his belt loops. His trousers, baggy cheap thing that they are (not fit to be near the costly splendour of _Arthur's suit_ ) sag immediately at the waist when the belt withdraws.   
He unbuttons and unzips, listens to the harsh, promise-filled jangle of heavy pockets with their cargo of keys and coins hitting the deck. Careless, he tosses his watch on the carpet and steps neatly forward, out of the twin puddles his trousers form around his ankles.

Now, almost naked, Eames approaches the foot of the bed- and what's on it. Now, his white briefs can come down. He hooks thumbs into the waistband and teasingly pushes them down his hips. He's hard. They catch on his erection and Eames smirks as he finishes tugging them down and lets them fall.   
Mmm. Lovely. Eames basks in his nakedness for a minute, enjoying the stroking air on his uncovered flesh. Then he takes a deep breath, bends his knees in readiness and _pounces_ onto the bed like a tiger, pounces straight onto Arthur's lovely Huntsman suit. 

Ah, bliss.   
Incomparable bliss. He scrambles into a seated position and sits for a second, pleased, then moves so he has a foot either side of the mattress and he is actually straddling the suit. It's all wrinkled and bunched-up under his body's weight like a particularly dainty lover. He leans forward, spreading his thighs widely and turns his head to the mirror:

A naked, muscular brunette male with dark-inked arms and chest on a hotel bed, his cock flushed and stiff and red. Hello there (Eames gives himself a little wave, grinning cheekily).

_God knows what it cost,_ Eames muses as he gazes down at the beautiful material disappearing between his bare thighs. Still, that is unimportant because there'll always be more money, more suits, more everything but there will only be one 'this'. This moment, when he grips his dick in one fist and a bunched handful of lapel in the other and makes beautiful music with them.   
So hard and ready, he's curling the grey fabric around his prick, oh, right round like a hand, like _Arthur_ and he squeezes himself briefly through the material. Fuck. The precome seeping from his cockhead is smeared stickily all over when he curiously peels the material away again, all shiny brushstrokes on grey, so delicious.

Marking his territory.

How shall he indulge himself? He goes with his first instinct, tugs at the shoulders of the thing as he lets himself fall backwards and suddenly he's on his back _surrounded_ by it, wrapping his legs and arms around this stretch of fabric and burying his face in it happily.

Oh, _Arthur_. Even when he isn't here, he is. He's here in every forbidding geometric line of the cloth, he's here in - yesss, in smell, he's here in spirit. Eames bites playfully at a lapel, tugs it in his teeth and thinks of Arthur. Arthur in suit after suit after suit, Arthur in no suit at all, naked. Arthur frowning at him and complaining. Arthur on top of him. In him. Arthur cursing him. Kissing him. Arthur. Lust becomes the driving factor so he presses the material deep between his legs with a gasp, clamps his thighs around it, wonderful torturous pressure as his wrist works and works at rubbing his dick through the suit, riding the strokes of his own palm. His balls are tight, that pleasurable ache of need that's desperate and unchecked, because he is, he is, so hard for Arthur and Arthur's bloody _suit_ , for anything he can get, and he rubs, rubs, the hot pulses and twitches shuddering through his thighs and cock beneath his own touch are a thousand secret signals for how much he needs Arthur, needs to c -

Panting, Eames stops. No. He'll delay it, play, like he wants to. He and Arthur's suit have ages yet. Pleasure delayed is pleasure doubled, right.

Rubbing his skin through the fabric is divine though. The sweat collecting on him is soaked up in it, uniting his and Arthur's smells so pleasingly when he buries his nose in the collar. The material's warming, crushed against his body this way like a lover. The plum silk back section of the open waistcoat is smooth against his torso. The arms sag lazy round his waist like longing limbs fill them. 

Snuffling into the shoulder, Eames sighs.

"Oh, Arthur..." he confesses quietly to soft cloth, "I do love you. So much."

Clothing being an emblem, an embodiment, this isn't just a suit he's masturbating with, this is a little piece of Arthur he's making love to.

Lazily he starts again. Clutches fabric and rubs it along the length of his throbbing erection as his mouth reflexively sucks at a wad of shoulder-fabric, moaning his enjoyment into the cloth gag it makes, helplessly. Teases his body, sucks at stitching, on and on and on.  
Slow. Eames takes it slow now. He strokes away luxuriously at his crotch, little shudders working up and down his spine so pleasurably, thighs flexing over wadded material, fingertips massaging to a hazy beat. Yes. Yes. Like that. Snakes a hand under the fabric to toy with his nipple, aching bud that it is. Pinches. Circles with a thumb. Round and round. Whimpers into the cloth as his other hand gently tightens around his neglected, sore testicles. Need it. To come, but. He will. Soon.

The cloth bulges in his mouth and fills it and presses on his tongue, fibres stamping the moist pink muscle, he sucks, near mindless now, letting things build, is this tantric, how slow, how lazy this is, slow and rich and good, good, good, so nice -

Precome's _oozing_ out his tender tip, he leaks it, feels it and the gathering tense heat in his groin and belly that's building like a storm inside of him. So good, this pleasure. All he can think of. It aches, it's, oh, ohfuck, nngh -

Eames gasps into cloth, hand speeding desperately, hips jolting as he rubs....

It hits suddenly.   
Ecstasy rips through Eames's whole body. Bursts. Jacknifing on the bed, he clenches and comes.

Inummerable seconds go by. 

Nice. Relaxing, just to ride out the tremors of his body with closed eyes, cuddling the suit. He's happy, but tired. He thinks he should probably do something with the eviden...the suit, before Arthur gets back though, and -

"Eames."

His eyes jerk open.


	2. Gratuitous Suit Sex

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

He's looking up at Arthur. Arthur, who's looming over the bed like a cloud, staring down at him, all folded arms and frowny-face.

Eames blinks, embarrassed.

"You were fucking one of my suits, weren't you?"

His mouth still stoppered with cloth, he shakes, _No._

Arthur's mouth twitches at that. He casts a considering look down Eames's body, clearly taking in the sight of the bunched grey material scissor-gripped in Eames's legs, the fistful of jacket in Eames's hand, the mouthful of shoulder Eames was chewing on.

"I don't know," Arthur concludes at last, "whether it's a sign of stupidity or reckless brilliance that you think I'm actually gonna believe you."

Eames spits out the shoulder fabric.

"You have fucked one of my suits before, Eames. I know this, because I found it. But now I have found you _in the process_ of fucking one of my suits."

 _I wasn't fucking it, I was making love to it_ Eames wants to say. Sheepish, he dopily grins up at Arthur, hoping all will be forgiven if he widens his eyes enough.

"I do not like you fucking my suits. You stain and rip them. You _bite_ them, Eames. Effectively, you ruin them."

Well, he supposes that's true enough.

"But..." Arthur's face hardens, all the humour drains from it and he looks down what is visible of Eames's body again, "but that's not the worst thing, is it?"

He doesn't know what the worst thing is but he suddenly doesn't like the sound of it.

"The _worst_ thing," Arthur grits out, staring at the remains of his suit wrapped around Eames, "is how fucking _jealous_ you make me of my own goddamn clothing."

This doesn't quite penetrate his brain until his eyes drift down and he sees that inches from his elbow, straining against tight, tight slacks, is Arthur's erection.

Oh.

"You had no idea how long I was standing here, did you?" 

Without taking his eyes from that promising-looking bulge, he shakes his head again.

"I guess I should buy some cheap suit and wear it a couple times, just so you can fuck it. But I don't _wear_ cheap suits, Eames, even for you."

He knows. He likes that.

"Maybe I should just smack your ass next time I catch you." 

He'd like that too, actually.

"Or maybe," breathes Arthur, dropping to one knee so his dark dark eyes can bore so deeply into Eames's, "maybe I should just spend so damn long fucking you into the mattress, fucking you _hard_ , all the time, that you have no energy _left_ to jerk off all over my suits."

"Bloody hell." Eames croaks. Round 2 suddenly seems a distinct possibility.

Arthur wraps a fond hand round the back of his head, stares at his mouth.

"You're a crazy, sexy bastard, Eames." 

"Yeah, I love you too," Eames whispers, before the kiss silences him entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This playful, silly, submissive Eames is closest to my headcanon Eames - and I love him dearly. As does Arthur.


End file.
